The Council Of Lords
by l0rdn1hilus
Summary: With Martin Septim gone, and Cyrodiil in disarray, the lords of Oblivion watch...But no longer desire to wait.
1. The Covenant

The Council Of Lords.

DISCLAIMER: I don't Own Oblivion...Even Though I Dearly Wish to.

The Council Of Lords, Chapter 1: The Covenant.

After The Final Sacrifice Of Martin Septim, The Last, Most Valiant Emperor Of Cyrodiil, Mehrunes Dagon is gone, Cast Back Into The Waters Of Oblivion. But he was not the only Daedric Lord To Desire Tamriel, Nor Will he Be The Last.

With the Dragonfires gone, extinguished, their Power returned to It's Divine Source, Akatosh, The Dragon-God Of Time. Will hope once again rise from the Ashes Of Despair and Destruction? Or Will Another Lord Rise From Oblivion?

I Hope So, For the Fate Of All The Peoples Of Tamriel, For All Our Fates...For The Fate Of those to come...

I Do ever Hope So...

May Akatosh Have Mercy On All Our Souls.

----The Champion Of Cyrodiil.

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A cloaked figure strode across the planes of Oblivion, fiery winds that would cut Mortal Flesh to the bone whipping his ebon cloak across his shoulders, sand blowing across his masqued face, a massive hound standing at his heel, ever walking astride him, till the end of all.

His soft-heeled boots dragged across the dark planes of Oblivion, shuffling the sand underneath his feet, breath as unforgiving and cold as the eternal frost emanating from within his shrouded cloak, misting into reddened fire in the harsh winds of Oblivion.

"Milord, what business do we have that is so important that we are summoned to the planes of Boethiah himself, to hold council with the _Ach'nari_, The Unholy Siglium?"

"Even I know not of Boethiah's unknowable intentions, a power as great as he is as unknowable to me as he is to you. Know that, even as I stand amongst him an equal, I must respect his will as I would any of My Fellow Princes."

"Now, Stay here, and Be Silent, We have arrived."

A clawed hand emerged from within the trappings of a Black Robe, and made a mystic gesture, pulling ancient Daedric sigils and runes from thin air, animated by flowing streams of Magicka, the eternal threads which link and animate all, that comprise the souls of the mortal...and immortal, knowledge and void, life...and death.

Spires of Obsidian and Bone parted to reveal a pathway, leading to a single, dark, Obsidian door, encrusted with the dark sigil of Oblivion, the eternal symbol of The Daedric Princes, framed against a background of eternal night around a dying sun, consuming Tamriel in fire and death, while the souls of all are harvested and procured from annihilation, as tentacles and eight clawed hands subtly pull the strings of the world, bringing it under eternal dominion of Oblivion.

"Open."

The door, as if understanding the voice, parted along its middle, revealing an entrance to the antechamber of the sanctuary of the Daedric Lords, dimly lit by a single, green, undying flame in the centre of the room, hovering above a Daedric Sigil, supported by pillars of Fire and Frost.

Twelve Hooded Entities sat in a solemn circle around the flame, their reddened eyes only visible, heads bowed in silent observation, covered in hooded cloaks.

"You're late, Lord Vile."

"Blame your messenger, Boethiah, if I had been properly informed, this council would have already convened."

Boethiah only snarled and bade Clavicus take his seat amongst the council.

Clavicus Vile merely extended a hand, and a chair formed itself out of the Obsidian floor.

"Lords of the Daedra, Councillors of the Ach'Nari, Mehrunes Dagon has failed to once again capture the realm of Tamriel! We cannot sit idly by after failure after failure! Tamriel is ripe for picking, like root from the Harrada! They will fall before our might! Their world will become a smouldering ember amidst the ashes of Oblivion eternal!"

"Are you Insane! Molag, come to your senses, surely you know that with the defeat of Dagon, the protection of Akatosh himself is beset upon Tamriel! We cannot intrude upon that realm, or so incur the wrath of the divines! We do NOT want Conflict, Molag, not like in the past, when we content to pull the strings!"

"Heh, and so we become the puppets, and let fate pull the strings we once did? And this from you, Boethiah! What happened to your warrior's fire?"

Boethiah raised his Daedric Mace, ready to strike Molag Bal.

"You would spake such LIES OF ME!"

"Silence, Both Of you!"

"Ah, so now the mistress of Eternal night addresses us! Speak, Nocturnal, and we shall honor your words."

"It is not I who needs speak, But it is he."

"Mora! Forgive our disrespect! Please, speak..."

"Lords Of Oblivion! Hear me! Too long have we sat in Shadow! Sitting by the sidelines! The age of non-intervention is OVER! Tamriel is a mere obstacle to be eradicated and absorbed!"

Malacath stood up. "I concur!"

Molag Bal rose from his seat. "Mora Speaks The Truth!"

Mora raised a tentacled appendage, and silenced the lot.

"However, Boethiah has seen the situation for what it really is, We dare not incur the wrath of the divines, lest we devastate all of Oblivion and Nirn! We must approach with cunning and guile! Not rash action, look where that landed Councillor Dagon!"

"Indeed." Issued a voice from within a dark, cowled hood.

"Clavicus? Something to say?"

"If we are truly to succeed, we must not only be pulled by the strings of fate, we ourselves must pull the strings!"

"What do you mean, Clavicus?"

"You have piqued my interest, Clavicus Vile, continue!"

"Thank you, Lord Mora, Lord Hircine. Fellow Princes, what I mean to say is, that, we may act through mortal agents like before, but take even greater liberties when overseeing their actions! As much as we can grant power, free will is something we may NEVER tamper with...only influence!"

"Manipulation...You plan has merit, Lord Vile."

"But the barrier! The enchantments of Akatosh!"

"Ahh...therein lies the answer, Lady Vaermina."

"As long as we have means by which we may interact with the Mortal Plane, our influence there will never be diluted! We may not be able to set foot on that realm, but our voices will not ring hollow!"

"Hear Hear!"

Clavicus Vile sat down, amidst the cheers of his fellow Lords.

Peryite was next to stand, and when he did, it was a magnificent gesture.

His long, scaled neck rising from the depths of his hood, his magnificent wings spread outwards, spanning the lengths of the room, as grand as any of the magnificent beast of Oblivion, yet with the cutting edge of an ebon scimitar.

He dug his claws into the ground, and made a proclamation.

"It is settled then! But how do you propose, Lord Vile, that we remove the enchantments upon Akatosh's realm."

Hermaeus Mora Stood, and extended a pincer.

"That, my friend, is something we here, possess the power to do already!"

"Mora, Surely you Jest!"

"Mora's eyes turned to regard Sanguine, who was idly playing with a skull.

"Have you forgotten, Sanguine? Have you forgotten we are the Daedric LORDS? Divinities on A par with the divines of Nirn! In days old, Akatosh and Dagon sat as equals! Not enemies!"

"Many have forgotten, but the infinitum remembers..."

"But how? Direct intervention will only result in..."

"Ahhh...therein lies Clavicus's plan."

"So what you mean to say is..."

"YES! We will act through our mortal avatars, and in doing so, we will open a gate to Oblivion for our armies and ourselves to eradicate Nirn!"

"And by then...it will be too late."

"Too late? Too late for what?"

"Patience, Lord Boethiah, All will be revealed soon enough, when the infinitum surrenders its knowledge..."

Peryite stood up, his massive wings spanning the length of the chamber.

"And so the charge of darkness begins anew."

He raised his dark hands, to the sky, and made a proclamation.

"For the Ach'Nari, for Oblivion!"

And, like a sacrament from Oblivion, the Lords of The Daedra stood up, and made their proclamation to the stars eternal.

"For Oblivion!"

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Review Please! Constructive criticism appreciated.


	2. The Wheel Of Fate

The Council Of Lords.

DISCLAIMER: I don't Own Oblivion...Even Though I Dearly Wish to.

The Council Of Lords, Chapter 2: The Wheel Of Fate.

Those who have tried to enter the Realm of The Daedra, desired power, desired dominion, desired to manipulate, and were themselves Manipulated. The hallowed Halls Of Apocrypha, The Rose Palace of Azura, The Planes Of Peryite...Were not places Mortals were ever made to tread.

They Are the Realms Of The Daedric Lords, Places Lost to Time and Knowledge.

As they rightfully should be.

-----Nai Tyrol-Llar, On Oblivion.

Peryite stood atop a spire of parched rock, his scimitar-sharp claws digging into the spire, leaving trace marks in the face of the rock itself. His Red Eyes glowing with Malice and Hate, seething with power unseen throughout the ages of Mortals. His Vast Wings Wrapped Around his miniscule frame, shrouding himself within trappings of darkness.

It was his sphere to oversee the Lower Realms of Oblivion, to ensure their Natural order and balance it against chaos. As it was since the birth of time, since the coming of Akatosh, the divines, his fellow lords... He was the Daedric Prince of pestilence and the order of the lower planes of Oblivion, a representation of concepts immortal and everlasting...ere the end of all.

As his long neck craned out of his shroud, looking over his realm, overseeing its natural order, as was his duty.

As he looked outwards towards Oblivion, the realm he had come to call home in the ages past...endless fires, parched stretches of land, Volcanoes, spires of Obsidian and rock, endless lakes of fire and ice...stretching for miles onwards...it truly was his home.

He flushed his wings outwards, and, in one magnificent swoop, soared into the blood red sky of Oblivion, and uttered a cry so shrill...so blood-curdling...that even the Magnificent Daedroth beasts scurried for cover into the caves of Oblivion.

Soaring through the sky, spreading his magnificent wings wide, reveling in the exhilaration of soaring the blood-red skies of Oblivion, Peryite slowly came to rest on an Obsidian spire, soaked red with the blood of countless slain Humans...and Dremora.

A faint clapping sound however, drew his attention.

"Magnificent! Simply Magnificent, Lord Peryite..."

Peryite looked out of the corner of his eye to see a Small, grinning child...Impossible, No Child Knew the secrets of Oblivion...And then...He smirked.

"Thank you...Lord Vile."

"Magnificent...Magnificent! A True Display of splendour and might!"

"You did not come here to complement me, Clavicus, speak your business."

"As blunt as ever...I can see."

"I said to speak."

"Okay...So basically, Hermaeus Mora desires an audience with us at Apocrypha, he has come across an ancient tome of his that he thinks will be of...Interest...to us."

"Interest? What do you mean, Lord..."

"You know perfectly well what I mean, Lord Peryite."

Peryite's eyes widened.

"He...has found a way?"

"Precisely, what took you so long?"

"Time is of the essence! To Apocrypha! Make haste."

Clavicus Vile twisted his mouth into a sinister smile, and nodded.

"Of course."

He raised his hands, and the sigil of Oblivion appeared in a bright, shimmering light, forming a bright, dazzling portal, animated by flowing Daedric Magicks and Sigils.

A moment later, he and Peryite were gone.

In Apocrypha:

A sphere of dazzling green Light formed out of thin air, and a portal opened, admitting two of the most powerful beings in Oblivion.

"Apocrypha...truly Mora's Namesake fits his realm."

"Indeed...Peryite."

An endless Library, dimly lit from above by burning transcendent sigil stones, each telling a facet of knowledge, of the corporeal, of the magickal, of the unseen, and seen, ever changing, ever evolving. Stretching into the great infinitude...spanning the firmament, transcending the void. It was like walking through an endless hall...Unconfined by Dimensions, Only supported by a floor and given some semblance of limitation by a ceiling.

Even the floor shifted continuously, reflecting the unpredictability of fate, yet, in its fixed, unyielding manner, reflected the irreversibility of what is written, and the futility one is faced with when attempting to escape it...

Even the ceiling moved, the stars framed eternal were charted, recorded...the infinite knowledge they told divined and recorded. Constellations were formed, their secrets surrendered to the Lord of Knowledge and Fate.

Stars died, were reborn, empires fell, People died, all this is seen in Apocrypha...All the forbidden and known knowledge that has, will, or ever shall be.

"Magnificent, isn't it? Lord Vile..."

"Definitely..."

As Mora's minions phased through the bookshelves, their hooded, green cloaks masqing their incomprehensible visages, ever chronologing the never ending time-stream's eternal flow in heavy, lidded tomes.

"Magnificent, No?"

Hermaeus Mora stepped out of the shadows, extending a tentacle to beckon Lords Peryite and Vile to follow him.

"The Realm Of Apocrypha is an eternal library, forvever chronologing the past, present, and future..."

Hermaeus Mora extended a tentacle, and pulled spinning Daedric Sigils from the air, and manipulated them by sight and with his multiple appendages.

"These sigils represent the eternal flow of time within Apocrypha and the realms of all...ever changing, ever moving, but written in the stars eternal..."

With a random gesture, he dispelled the symbols and bade them walk on.

"Apocrypha has served its purpose ere the flow of time eternal, serving as the sanctum of forbidden knowledge...and knowledge known."

"Many things can be seen, found, learned, and unlearned in Apocrypha, all one needs to do..."

Hermaeus Mora waved a tentacled appendage lazily...

"Is to know where to look."

The Daedric Lord waved a tentacle, and the floor spun once again.

"Here, my friends...is the _Aldamar Xerius. _The treatise on the granting of power through Mortal Avatars."

A heavy, black, leather bound tome appeared in Mora's hand, bearing the trademark sigil of fate, the mark of Mora himself.

A Daedric Sigilum, engraved with Daedric words around the edges, with a single Clock carved into the center of the circle, never moving, stopped at the 10th of Sun's height, framed against a open triangle, from which mysterious concepts and secrets flew out...like a ne'er ending river of knowledge.

Mora opened the book, and the Daedric symbols inside came to life.

Mora spoke, in deep, disgusting, convoluted, yet vaguely ethereal...tones.

"And ere the rising of A new age upon Tamriel, shall the Divines grow complacent, contented, confident in the rashness and boldness of the Daedra, that their plots...however intricate, would come to ruin..."

"As Akatosh Closes the Gates Of Nirn to Dagon, Shall the Lords Of Oblivion No longer sit Above in Shadow, and no longer will they desire to wait."

Mora turned his head to Lords Peryite and Vile, and smirked...or...at least...what passed for a smirk.

"Until Now, the Aedra have spat upon our efforts...it is time to show them Our TRUE might! Lords Peryite and Vile!"

"Now...as the book says...The treatise through Mortal Avatars indicates we can only influence their actions through the intricacies of contracts and deception...manipulating the simple-minded with dreams of power..."

"I have seen this many a time, Lord Mora, and I can tell you, No Mortal Will Truly Trust a Daedra."

"That, Lord Peryite, is where you come in."

"As the Daedric Prince Of Pestilence, a sphere obscured even to the divines as the acts of nature...you can subtly manipulate the desperation of mortals...ere to the point they border on the madness that inhabits the sphere of Sheogorath."

"And yet, you must act subtly, so that the Divines do not suspect our hand in this!"

"Brilliant...Absolutely Brilliant, Lord Mora, I, The Lord Clavicus Vile, Approve!"

"As the Daedric Prince of Power and wishes, Lord Vile, it will be your duties to influence the Desperate Mortals, giving them hope where there seems to be nothing...Manipulating their pathetic, puny minds...to the point that they swar their allegiance to the _Ach'Nari_!"

"Indeed...Most Masterful...I, The Lord Peryite, Approve!"

Hermaeus Mora closed the treatise, and said, in his low, ethereal tones.

"It begins again...and this time...The Aedra lose..."

Peryite, Hermaeus Mora, And Clavicus Vile, The Lords Of Oblivion, said in one voice:

"And the Daedra...Win!"

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	3. Of Gods And Mortals

The Council Of Lords.

DISCLAIMER: I don't Own Oblivion...Even Though I Dearly Wish to.

The Council Of Lords, Chapter 3: Of Gods and Mortals.

"Aedra are associated with stasis. Daedra represent change. 

Aedra created the mortal world and are bound to the Earth Bones. Daedra, who cannot create, have the power to change."

----Morian Zenas, On Oblivion.

In the Ancient Days:

"In the ancient days, there was nothingness, Sithis, eternal void spanning the firmament and beyond.

Through the union of Anuiel and Padomay was born, creation...and the et'Ada, the ancient spirits, who would one day, form the Gods Of Nirn...and the Demonic Masters Of Oblivion.

They were the Aedra...and the Daedric Lords.

The first spirit to be given the knowledge to be brought into being was Akatosh himself, the dragon god of time.

This knowledge was the immortal, never-ending flow of time. It was a secret extricated from Anuiel by Akatosh, who then used this to form in the beginning place...as such, his perch from the eternal realm allowed the day...and the night.

It was, after this, the definition of time that the spirits begin to form, the more powerful coming into being first, by being able to grasp time as a facet of defining their past, present, and future.

Gradually, the divines begin to form...Arkay, Mara, Zenithar...

Their creation goes hand in hand with their antitheses, the Daedric Lords...

Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, Hermaeus Mora, Clavicus Vile, Azura, Boethiah...They were the first to form...

However, there was one, one of the greater spirits, who, possessed of ambition...who desired a realm to his own, to call his realm, his dimension...

And in his cunning, manipulation, and guile, he deceived the Et'Ada to create _Mundus_, the mortal plane of Nirn.

However, in that process, by creating the plane of Mortals, some of the Et'Ada made the ultimate sacrifice, the sacrifice of their own divinity. They became the Earth Bones, the Breath in the Wind; they gave of themselves to create the Mortal races, in the process, paving the way for a new age with their own deaths.

As such, the deceiver, in the process of this endeavor, was separated from his divine right, his true realm denied him.

After this, the Remaining Et'Ada who had not given of themselves or forsaken the lands of Nirn, became what the Cyrodiilic Mortals know as the Nine Divines.

Akatosh, Arkay, Stendarr, Dibella, Mara, Zenithar, Kynareth, Talos, and Julianos.

However, at this time, the Daedra came into being as well, especially, the Daedric Lords.

Mehrunes Dagon, Hermaeus Mora, Clavicus Vile, Nocturnal, Vaermina, Molag Bal, Boethiah...the greatest among the Daedra...the princes of Oblivion.

Being more attuned and sympathetic towards Padomay, the void, they deigned to rule over Oblivion.

Since the "divines" had given of themselves to create Nirn, the Daedric Lords patiently held back their spite and hate.

And for a time, it was truly peaceful.

But, one might wonder, why do the Daedra hate the divines and their dominion over Nirn?

Do you remember the Deceiver? The Creator?

He deceived the Et'Ada, who would later become the Aedra, to create Nirn, as is the nature of his sphere, Manipulation and cunning, Death and Strife.

He lost his divine spark for this treachery, robbed of his might by the Et'Ada, he was thrown down, left to wander his own creation, never rule it.

It was the ultimate punishment.

Throughout the ages, he has tormented the races of Nirn, hating them, carrying the spite of ages towards the Et'Ada who robbed him of his divine spark.

He has, throughout the ages, been seen as a fallen Aedra, the trickster and deceiver...many names has he been called by the peoples of Nirn.

He is no Aedra.

The Altmer remember him for the atrocity of the Psijic endeavour,

The humans see him as their creator.

He is Lorkhan.

He is the Daedric Prince of Manipulation, Spite, Death, and Cunning.

Nirn was his realm, Dawn's beauty, intended to be a Daedric Realm of Oblivon.

But? Is it truly his realm? He may have deceived to bring about its creation, but the Et'Ada gave of themselves to shape Nirn.

What is a realm without shape?

It is Nothing.

But...My Fellow Princes seek to reclaim what is theirs, and reverse the travesty inflicted on one of our brethren.

It is a desire formed by hate and jealousy.

It is something, even I, The Webspinner, Mephala, despise...

As thus, I stand out of the conflict, along with my two like-minded Daedric Lords.

And as thus...we watch, and wait..."

In the Rose Palace Of Azura:

In a realm where the sheer, unparalleled beauty of Nature can be found, where, atop a peak of flawless Ebon and Varla Stones, there sits a magnificent palace.

Constructed out of Obsidian and Diamond, where an intricately crafted fountain of Flowing Magicka, eternally waxing and waning, sits in the quadrangle of the palace, reflecting the Waxing and Waning cycles of the eternal suns of Azura's Rose Palace, where Dawn and Dusk are merely two sides of the same coin.

Today, atop the eternal palace of Azura, the two suns stood in Dusk, their light waning, representing what will soon come to be of Nirn...and Oblivion.

The fountain had stopped flowing, the never-ending streams of Magicka, once reflecting the cycles of the twin stars in the sky, now stood silent, its streams ceasing in its eternal flow, waning, just like the eyes of Azura, the twin suns over her palace.

This had not gone unnoticed; the Handmaidens of Azura had sensed their Mistress' Disconcertment, and feared its meaning.

And yet, they dared not trouble their mistress.

It was not until 2 cycles of the eyes of Azura had passed, did her Handmaidens truly begin to see that whatever was happening...was indeed serious.

Two figures strode towards the quadrangle, silent, unmovable. One dressed in raiment of White, her silky blond hair covering her back, the white, seething energies of life trailing her wherever she went. The Other, However, was dressed in raiment of Black, with trailing shawls of Pink and Maroon, with a necklace of Divining skulls around her neck. All the while, her Eight Arms playing with a spider's web, manipulating the individual strings, and seeing where their oscillations spread to, and how they were offset.

They were Meridia, the Lady of Life Energies, the product of creation; and Mephala, the Web-spinner, the lady of Cause and Effect and outcomes, the end-point of time.

They were surprised to see them here, but still, treated them with the respect they deserved.

"Lady Meridia, Mistress Mephala, Lady Azura waits for you in the Throne room."

They turned their heads to regard them, but only Meridia responded.

"Thank you."

As they strode into the throne room, Azura welcomed her fellow Daedric Princes with open arms.

"Mephala, Meridia! Welcome! Please...follow me."

Azura led them to an empty room behind the Welkynd Throne of Dawn.

As she opened the door, Mephala and Meridia stepped into an empty, white room.

"This is the chamber of counsel, where I sometimes hold counsel with my Kynreeve."

Azura paused for a while, and continued.

"But today, we shall hold our counsel here."

A Marble Table formed out of thin Air, along with three high backed chairs, made out of Flawless Welkynd Stone.

"Please, Meridia, Mephala, be seated."

As they took their seats, Meridia spoke, almost immediately.

"I have waited too long to speak, Azura! I cannot sit idly by as war approaches! Millions, Billions, even, will die! As we speak, our bretheren will soon hold council as the _Ach'Nari_ again! Waiting to bring their full night to bear on Nirn!"

Azura looked at her fellow Lord, and gave a weak smile.

"Meridia, what can we do? We cannot raise arms against our fellow Daedric Lords and strike them down! It is so written in the eternal scrolls of the Daedra. We all signed it! Even you..."

Meridia slammed her palm on the table, the energies behind her seething with rage.

"But what for! It has been so long...why now? Why do the likes of Clavicus Vile and Molag Bal desire Nirn so much?"

Mephala calmly tapped a finger on the table, and responded, in her usual, seething, tones.

"It is because they desire something they think of as theirs."

Meridia looked in confusion...

"I—I don't understand."

Azura looked bewildered too.

"I don't understand either..."

Mephala sniggered, and asked for Azura's Star.

She placed it into the palm of her hand, and whispered some arcane Daedric incantation in hushed tones.

Soon after, Azura's star began to spin, and a faint blue light emanating from the centre and the tips of the flares, gradually growing in intensity.

"Behold, the ancient age, the age before Gods...and Mortals."

The star levitated in Mephala's hand, and spun, forming a sphere of time.

"It was in this age, that the trickster, Lorkhan, created Nirn!"

Azura and Meridia looked bored.

"So? We already know this."

Mephala sniggered.

"Ah, but do you know this?"

And, from within the portal of time, spoke the Trickster himself.

"My plan goes accordingly...soon; the foolish Et'Ada will have created a realm where I can rule solely! It will be a tribute to Father Padomay! A bastion of the void...it will be the beauty of Blood-Red Dawn...as the Aurbis is finally filled...with Oblivion!"

The portal faded, and closed, the star of Azura ceasing in its spin, slowing to a halt, coming to rest in the hands of Azura herself.

Meridia and Azura looked stunned.

Azura spoke first.

"So...that means...Nirn was intended to be a realm of Oblivion?"

Meridia spoke next, in a shocked voice.

"Lorkhan...I never knew...He was...One of us?"

Mephala nodded her head, and spoke again.

"Yes, truly only another one of us knows of this divine scandal."

Azura and Meridia knew the answer even before the words had come out of Mephala's mouth.

They responded simultaneously.

"Hermaeus Mora himself."

Mephala sniggered.

"Exactly."

They all stared at each other for a while, then, Azura spoke.

"The _Ach'Nari_ desire Nirn, and yet, somehow, we know this desire will not end well, that is why we rejected their dark council in the ages past."

Meridia spoke.

"We may not be able to go against our fellow Lords, but we can help Nirn, we can save it, and its denizens from Oblivion!"

Azura and Mephala looked on, surprised.

Azura spoke to Meridia, in a tone of respect, and doubt...

"Meridia...you realize, what you say is insanity..."

Meridia looked stunned.

"No, Azura, I am not insane!"

Mephala stepped in between both of them, and spoke slowly.

"No! Now is not the time for action, we must observe this situation! Not intervene; Rash Action will only result in blunder! We must tread lightly!"

Meridia looked outraged, but, then, she sighed, both out of tiredness and exasperation.

"Perhaps...perhaps you are right."

Azura, sensing they had reached an impasse, made a proclamation.

"It is in dark times we tread against the will of our fellow Lords; indeed it is truly an unheard-of thing, strife among the Daedric princes, even Lorkhan, in all his deviousness, would not have thought of this!"

"However, it is...sadly...necessary."

The three looked at each other, and understood the severity of the times they were in, and how thin was the ice on which they tread.

They spoke, as one.

"For the sake of all worlds, we shall find a better way...than this."

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Thanks For All Your Reviewing! Please give this Author a hand, I'm struggling with how to develop the plot from here, in temrs of Lorkhan's fate. All reviews/Suggestions Appreciated greatly!

Thanks Again!

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	4. The Beginning of The End

The Council Of Lords.

DISCLAIMER: I don't Own Oblivion...Even Though I Dearly Wish to.

This Author Apologizes for the Long In-between Period of Updating, I've been away at O.B.S (Outward Bounds School) for 5 days! Now...I shall recommence!

The Council Of Lords, Chapter 4: The Beginning Of The End.

"In the Brightest of Day, There Dwells the Shadow. Within the Heart Of All, there dwells desire, there dwells lust, there dwells jealousy. Know this, and acknowledge it, And No Hand Of Evil Will touch you."

--The Nerevarine, On the Defeat Of Dagoth Ur, and the Last Days Of The Prophecy.

Within Coldharbour:

"There is a place, a place, which to the eyes of the denizens of Nirn, transcends apathy.

The land is wasteful and barren, where spires of Obsidian and Sigil stone protrude from the ground like monuments to death and Oblivion.

The land around your eyes is surrounded by endless stretches of parched and wasted soil. Burnt by magma, and polished by the scythe-like winds that span this barren world. Patches of Farm-crops dying, charred by the searing wind and scorching heat, almost writing in their death throes as swarms of ravenous locusts shear away whatever remains of their bathetic existence.

A burnt spire looms over this desolate and barren realm, its spear-tip looms over a wasted and burn city, casting a ghastly shadow, to signify that light will never shine again.

That city is the Imperial city.

As you walk along the road to the broken and corroded gates of the once proud city, broken shields, shattered swords, spattered with blood, litter the ground. A broken skull rolls across a cracked road, marked with geysers of heat and patches of dried blood. All the while, winds whip sand that shears fallen banners of war, tearing down once proud symbols of the empire to ruin.

The Doors of the Imperial city lie broken, creaking eerily about their once proud perch. Spattered with blood, skulls and skeletons impaled upon broken battering rams, flies swarming about blood-drenched armor, the skeletal remains of once proud warriors still occupying the shell.

The ruins of the city are charred black, geysers of fire erupting around the city, while spears of ice stab your heart, its once proud walls now crumbling remains, while the ground shivers as terrible Daedric siege engines prowl the outskirts of the city, their colossal claws splitting the parched earth, their gaping maws filled with seething Daedric magicks, held in place by sigil stones.

The temple of the one is completely laid to waste, the statue of the Avatar of Akatosh cast down, while a shrine to the Prince of Rape and Souls stands over it, its dark shadow looming over its broken chassis. And, as the statue's head lies broken, its skull rolling along the floor, you fall to your knees and weep, knowing all is surely lost.

But wait, The Imperial castle still stands, maybe a bastion of hope remains!

But, as you stagger towards it, across streams of blood, through piles of rotting corpses, you begin to see the futility of all you had hoped.

A dark Maelstrom swirls over the tip of the spire of the imperial palace, no longer polished white, but now a obsidian black, as empty as the soul gem, as dark as the sigil stone.

And, atop this terrible spire, sits a terrible horned figure, sitting on a throne of broken, blood-stained swords, with armrests of cracked skulls. All the while, scythe-sharp claws tap on the armrests, producing eerie crackling sounds, as broken bone rains from the top of the spire.

As you walk nearer, you see two eyes hold terrible gaze over the broken city, terrible, seething daedric energy pouring forth form behind them like fountains of doom.

And, from nowhere, a terrible, chilling laugh echoes throughout the land, and the Maelstrom above the terrible figure's head screams in agony.

For it is a Maelstrom of lost, forgotten souls, screaming in eternal torment and pain.

And, as you look up, you fall to your knees, and weep, wishing that some manner of death would claim you, only to remove the pain of what you will never forget.

But nothing comes.

This is Coldharbour, my realm.

The Realm of the prince of Souls and Rape, Pain and Enslavement.

This is the realm of Molag Bal.

My realm...

And someday, it will become a reality.

But not in Oblivion.

In Nirn."

Within Clavicus Vile's Realm of Wishes: The Ach'Nammoth.

"Within the Ach'Nammoth, there is nothing but void, except a winding path, engraved with the Sigils of Oblivion, Supported on its sides by Welkynd and Sigil Stones on the left and right respectively, imbued with seething, blue Daedric Magicks, over an eternal void.

There is nothing to your side, nothing above, nothing below.

Nothing exists, until you walk on.

As you walk on, shapes begin to form out of the darkness.

Pillars begin to form.

Those on the sides of the Welkynd stones form the desire of the righteous, the pure at heart.

Whilst on the sides of the sigil stones, Clawed spires of obsidian begin to come into being.

They form the desire of the wicked, the evil, the malicious and destructive.

You yearn to touch them, and you do.

But, as you do, they slowly slip away into the void, becoming more intangible and non-existant by the second.

Imagine, all you have ever wanted in life, so close, so near...

But it is all taken away, so easily.

The pain that rends your heart is almost too much to bear.

But, in Ach'Nammoth, the pain becomes reality, not an illusion of the mind.

Your heart is rent in two, and you fall to the ground, only to have the minions of the Lord Vile Claim you.

None leave my realm.

None."

At the throne of Clavicus Vile:

At the end of the void, there sits a majestic platform of Welkynd stone, and upon it, a throne of pure sigil. Arch-backed to simulate the effect of two massive claws jutting out. Engraved with the sigil of Oblivion, The Throne sits, suspended in mid-air, by Seething Daedric magicks.

Clawed hands caress the head of a massive, sharp-toothed hound, with seething, blood-red eyes, drool and blood spilling from its mouth.

"Isn't it strange, Barbas; that I, the Lord Clavicus Vile, the Prince of Wishes, and Power, never seem having any wishes of my own? Kind of an Irony, Don't you think?"

The massive hound responded in a curt, civil Imperial Accent.

"As you see fit, Lord Vile."

The hands stop caressing the dog's head, and, from a majestic throne of pure sigil, two small feet touch the floor.

A small, horned, grinning child steps forth, wearing a simple vest and pants, along with tiny leather sandals.

And, to the massive hound, he responds, in a calm, jestful manner.

"Barbas, We are not holding council with the Ach'Nari, there is no need for any cordial formalities! Please, speak your..."

A blood-red portal, shaped like the sigil of Oblivion opens in front of Clavicus Vile's throne, Daedric magicks old and timeless pouring out of it in torrents.

Clavicus Vile turns, and bids Barbas Leave.

The Dog, nodding its head in obedience, fades into the void.

Two terrible, scythe-like wings protrude from the interior of the portal, followed by an arrow shaped, ebony head, marked by two seething, green eyes.

"Welcome to Ach'Nammoth! Peryite! To what do I owe this honour?"

The dragon pulls his wings out of the portal, and as his two, scimitar sharp claws grasp the floor like pincers, the portal closes shut, and he speaks.

"Clavicus, the time has come."

The informal smile slides off Clavicus Vile's face, and is replaced by a look of grim resolve.

And, in a low tone, he responds: "Indeed"

Peryite's serrated teeth and curved jaws curl into a malicious smile.

He waves a scythe-like wing, and a shimmering portal into the mortal realm appears, focusing on the ancient Ayleid ruins of Miscarcand.

"Within Miscarcand, lie the broken remains of the order of the black worm. Their pathetic leader, Mannimarco, has been cast down, destroyed by the champion of Cyrodiil. The dregs of this pathetic cult are desperate, but hold on to their necromantic beliefs."

Clavicus Vile nods, and smiles.

His lips curl, and he mouths one word: "However..."

Peryite shoots a glance at Clavicus Vile, and smirks.

"However, they will soon feel the pain of their beliefs."

"I will create a plague of Pestilence that will sweep Miscarcand! I shall oversee its progress! I will ensure that it will claim Necromancer after Necromancer, working within subtlety and guile!"

Clavicus Vile merely nodded and said: "But..."

Peryite smirked again.

"But, they will not all die..."

"I will leave the strongest willed of the Necromancers to live, but not before I break his mind and soul, and until he swears unwavering loyalty to the Lords of Oblivion!"

Clavicus Vile smiled, and nodded once again, responding in hushed tones.

"And to that end..."

He glanced at Peryite, who held his gaze.

And, simultaneously, they responded:

"Oblivion will rise again!"

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Please review! Please!

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	5. The Worm Turns

The Council Of Lords.

DISCLAIMER: I don't Own Oblivion...Even Though I Dearly Wish to.

Once Again, I apologize for the long update, I am currently Studying for an Extremely Important exam, however, I try to squeeze time in for my story...and other stuff.

The Council Of Lords, Chapter 5: The Worm Turns.

"Better To Be Mad than Hopelessly despondent."

----Sheogorath, on the granting of the Spear of Bitter Mercy to The Champion of Daggerfall.

Within The Planes Of Peryite:

"Plague, Disease, Pestilence, Death, and Pain...Do you know of these things?

But you do not.

Mortals do not realize what pestilence is truly embodied within.

Enter The Realms of Peryite, and open your eyes.

It is not a realm of Oblivion of the like of which you know.

The air is pitch green, the skies green with noxious fumes.

Feeble rays of sunlight shine through the dead atmosphere, the air dank with the scent of decay and necrophilic disease. Every breath you take shears away the skin of your lungs, reducing even the simplest of tasks to mind-numbing torture.

Even the Very ground itself dies, what should be parched soil and polished rock is black, acidic sludge, every step, even the smallest, simplest of baby steps, causes incomprehensible pain, as the flesh is burnt away, then the muscle, then...you feel no longer.

There are no nerves left to register the pain.

Even the resilient Harrada and bloodgrass die. Black, withering, charred remains the only thing left of the once deadly plants.

And, in the distance, a Green-tinged Obsidian structure, shaped like a melting skull, upon a pedestal of Sigil Stone, shaped like a dragon's claw, a mockery of Akatosh himself.

That is the plague skull, my throne.

As your eyes water, trying to dilute the acids and bacterium in the air, you vaguely see a Terrible specter of a dragon land on the skull's head, and emit a piercing scream, so that your ear drums bleed, and your head bursts with pain.

It however, is the last thing you see, as the flesh-eating bacterium and acids burn away your eyes, stripping you of all vision, as you fall, weak, to the ground, consumed by all manner of death-inducing bacterium, fatal poisons and noxious chemicals.

That specter is I, the Wyrm Peryite, the Daedric Prince of Pestilence and Order, the last thing you will ever see in that forsaken place.

Nothing in my realm is wasted, and your body is consumed, only to be diluted into the endless cycle of pestilence in my realm.

You become that which you despise.

A fitting end, indeed.

Within the Plague Skull:

A heavy war hammer lands on the ground with a distinct "THUNK", whilst its bearer steps, impatiently, off a throne of the purest Welkynd, landing on the floor with a heavy thump, sending a miniscule shockwave throughout the entire room.

"Peryite! What is taking so long! Boethiah sent me here to aid you! Not sit by the sidelines and be idle!"

In front of a massive well, stands the lord Peryite, his terrible, scimitar-sharp ebon wings enveloping his frame in a dark shroud. Pretending to notice his fellow Lord, Malacath, his arrow-shaped head turns slightly sideways, a red, glowing eye visible.

He smirks, and turns back to his work.

Malacath, however, is not one to be ignored.

Slamming his massive war hammer, the great _Volendrung_, on the ground with a massive "THUD", he demands of Peryite to answer his question, no more, no less.

"Peryite! Answer me!"

Peryite slowly turns his terrible, arrow-shaped head to regard Malacath, his right eye aflame with Daedric magicks, glowing with fury.

He responds, in a deep, sinister, undertone.

"This is why you are the most improper person Boethiah should have sent; you have no inkling of subtlety and manipulation."

Malacath looks infuriated, but falls silent, and Peryite continues.

"Pestilence is an act of nature, terrible yes, but nonetheless a necessary process."

"Yet, as much as it is my sphere, I cannot make it appear, at least on the mortal plane, that I have directly influenced it, I can only oversee its progress and decide what should happen next, to say the least, to insure the progress of the cycle of order, of nature, of balance. In short, I have confines. It would incur the wrath of the Divines if I were to directly influence it, to any extent...and that is not what I want."

"I have to subtly manipulate what already is, but not make it seem that it is a product, directly, of my will outside of my confines."

"Fortunately, with the aid of this well; The Plague Well, I can make it appear that the spread of the plague I have engineered is an act of "Nature" that whatever that has been done is within my confines, that it not a product of my direct influence."

"I have engineered this plague for weeks, and, slowly, it has killed off Necromancer after Necromancer in Miscarcand, held prisoner there by my magicks, I have been making it seem as if the dead in Miscarcand have harbored some terrible Narcoleptic decay."

"The dregs remain, however, and, in this last plague, I will destroy them ALL."

"Save one."

"He shall be the first of the converts, and the first step to our master plan shall be in place."

Malacath nods, and smiles at Peryite.

"A most brilliant plan, masterfully Engineered."

Peryite regards him with impassionate nod, and turns to the well.

Ancient Daedric Symbols lined the well, some engraved along the sides of the well, some floating, glowing, on the well's mouth, exchanging bolts of Daedric magicka between them, and, as Peryite shifts his wings over the contents of the well, a glowing, Murky green liquid, the symbols engraved along the well glow with an eerie green light.

Peryite flushes his wings, dispelling the dark shroud covering his body, and, directing his hands towards the well, Daedric Magicks flowed from them like torrents, animating the floating Daedric symbols around the well.

The well's mouth had become the epicenter of a storm, Daedric Magicks pouring out of if in spears of lightning, animated by the will of Peryite, the Daedric symbols, spinning wildly now, conjured a Maelstrom of wildly convulsing noxious air, given form by the power of Oblivion itself.

Peryite nods to Malacath, telling him it is time.

Malacath grins, and, lifting _Volendrung_, slams it into the heart of the Maelstrom.

A column of Energy Erupts, and, channeled by the Magicks of Peryite and Malacath, Lords of The Daedra, flows from the eyes of the Plague skull, into the Dark skies of Peryite's realm, plunging into the skies like a spear of green fire, swirling the Sickly green clouds around it, transforming the calm skies into a swirling, lightning struck Maelstrom.

And, pleased with the Doom they have wrought; Peryite and Malacath raise their heads to the skies, and...Laugh.

Their shrieking laughter echoes through the plague skull, into the skies of Oblivion itself.

The Laughter continues spiraling outward, like a dark sacrament, like a forgotten apocalypse, threatening to consume all in its wake.

In Miscarcand:

"We are doomed, doomed!"

"Calm down, Aival, We are not going to die!"

"Easy for you to say, Janus, we are the only two left, even Mannimarco himself couldn't..."

"You don't mean that."

Aival recomposed himself, and looked at his fellow Anchorite.

"Janus, the whole order in Miscarcand is dead! It almost seems like this was engineered somehow! The gates sealed to our Magicks, this plague, the systematic death of the order here! As much as we work around the dead here, it almost seems like..."

Aival's eyes widened in fear.

Janus mouthed out one word...

"This...isn't natural..."

The fumes of the disease had filled the air once again, the rank, green fumes filtering through the doors of Miscarcand.

Janus had begun to die, his skin being burned away, dissolved, as if by some caustic acid, his skin tightening, as the acid dissolves the muscle underneath, Rigor Mortis setting in as his body snaps into physically impossible positions, whilst the decay spreads through his skin, his whole body even...shearing away flesh, burning away tissue, the skin of the skull becoming a mere mask as the plague destroys the tissue within, pulling the skin over the skull as if it was a terrible mask of pain, to remain on the face for eternity.

The Imperial is shortly dead.

Aival only mouthed one word.

"Why..."

The green fumes of the plague emanate from Janus's body, and, dissipating into the air, they enter Aival's lungs.

Aival only has time to grasp his chest as he doubles over in terrible pain, his face twisting into a mask of horror, the disease burning away the entire left side of his face, exposing the white of bone, as tissue gives way to show the impassionate mask of the skull. And whilst this happens, the disease sets to work tightening the other side, making blood vessels and veins protrude as if they were tattoos.

His hands begin to burn, and Aival knows that the decay is spreading, his hands' flesh burning away to reveal the bone underneath.

His entire right eye burns, the pupils dilate, blood vessels burst, filling half his field of view with red, clutching at his eye in pain, Aival tries to claw it out, if only to ease the pain.

And then, remarkably, the pain stops.

A cold, emotionless voice speaks to Aival, and it is not one he recognizes.

"High Elf, I have need of your services."

Aival responds, albeit in a shaking voice.

"Who are you?"

The voice responds again, and this time, it responds in a mocking tone.

"Does it matter? I have many names, Lord of Pestilence, the Great Wyrm, et cetera, et cetera...What matters is that I have a need of your services, do you accept?"

Aival suddenly knows who it is he addresses.

"You...you are a Daedric Lord! You're Peryite! He whose Sphere is Pestilence and order of the Lower Planes Of Oblivion! What would you have a mere Necromancer do? I am obviously not of any concern to you."

The voice responds in a corrective manner.

"Ahhhh, but if I had not, would I be here? This plague was to find one worthy of being my herald on earth, only the most ingenious and resilient in will and body respectively could be worthy of one such as I."

Suddenly, everything made sense to Aival.

"So...you engineered this...to choose me?"

Peryite responded in a cold, chilling voice.

"Yes."

"If you accept, you shall have power beyond your wildest dreams, if not..."

The pain once again gripped Aival, only this time it was amplified tenfold.

And then, as quickly as it had came, it stopped.

Aival clutched at his heart, which by now should have stopped, his Arteries had burst , and blood was streaming out of his now open mouth. His lungs were aflame; they had probably been sheared down to near-nothingness by the plague.

"I'm...Alive?"

The voice responds, in a cold, cruel, jesting tone.

"Of course you are, it would be a terrible waste if you were to die now, but this torture can go on forever, my power animating your bathetic mortal frame..."

Peryite paused, then continued.

"So, do you accept?"

Aival responded, in a voice, devoid of all emotion and filled with desperation.

"Yes, Lord Peryite, I accept."

Peryite laughed, and then, said,

"And so it is done!"

The fumes of the plague whirled around Aival, twisting into Daedric sigils, convulsing in a Maelstrom of Swirling Plague fumes and Daedric Magicks.

The fumes of the Plague fuse to Aival's body, becoming armor, dilating, as flexible as the plague's fumes itself. Yet as powerful as Daedric Tempered Obsidian steel, empowered by the Lord Peryite himself to disintegrate any weapon touched by the armor.

The Daedric Magicks enter Aival's hollow left eye socket, forming a makeshift, glowing, red eye, empowered with the ability to harness all manner of destruction Magicks. Whilst this is done, the Daedric Magicks, combined with the fumes of the plague, course through Aival's skull, forming green cracks, shaped like the sigils of Oblivion.

The fumes shear away Aival's black Necromancer robes, turning them the color of congealed, dried blood, replacing the symbol of the order of the black worm with that of the Sigil Stone of Oblivion.

The Magicks twist to form a solid form, a cape, empowered by Peryite himself to strengthen the innate Magicks of Aival's Necromantic Magicka, as well as his own inherent, innate Magicka, fortifying his abilities to restore, destroy, and alter the very physical fabric of Nirn...and Oblivion.

The Fumes then twist to form the legendary shield of _Spell Breaker_, empowered by Peryite to reverse the flow of all Negative Magicka directed towards the wielder, and to silence the flow of Magicka within any selected individual.

The Sigils spin faster and faster, the light surrounding Aival's body growing in intensity with each passing moment.

He screams, but no-one hears him.

Light pours out of Miscarcand, casting an eerie shadow around the misbegotten ruins.

And, in the hollow of Aival's head, Peryite laughs, and Aival knows, that now, his will is no longer his own.

It belongs to Oblivion now.

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